carve doors into the earth
where I descend and kiss
the figures hacked in stone
who move slower than
my fading companions
melted by the ooze of the present hour.
The eye of shifting galaxies
sees my hair in the well
a star mangled from
some gone flesh
and does not clench at it.
A painter finds me in the coining void
I reach for her dishes
in their rind of echoes
and her penetrating brushes
the wide metallic vents
sweep all appearances away
but the signs and their scars
remain.
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